“Yes sir.”
“And when did you first lay eyes on it?”
Nevin seemed to rack his brain for the exact date, though one had been provided for him weeks earlier. “Well, I believe it was the Tuesday after the shooting of Mr. Fortier.”
“And tell the jury what happened.”
“Yes sir. I was at Foxy’s and things were slow, as they usually are that time of the week. These two guys came in, got a table in a corner, ordered some drinks. Two of our girls joined them and they kept drinking. After several rounds, there was an argument with some boys shooting pool, something to do with one of the girls. Before we knew it there was a big fight—chairs, bottles, pool sticks flying. Girls screaming. We tried to break it up. I saw this one guy reach for the gun, this pistol right here, had it in a coat pocket, but before he could pull it out he got hit over the head with a pool stick. Split his head. I grabbed the gun before he could kill anyone and we soon got things under control. I hustled the first two out of the club and got ’em in their car, told ’em never to come back. They were really drunk. The one who owned the gun had blood all over his face. I had never seen ’em before, never seen ’em since.”
“And you kept the gun?”
“Yes sir. I took it home, cleaned it up. It’s a very nice piece and I waited for the owner to come back to the club and ask for it. As I said, I never saw him again.”
“Can you describe him for the jury?”
Nevin shrugged. When you’re creating a fictional character, he can be anything you want. “Yes sir. About my height and build, I’d say thirty years old, dark hair.”
“Did he drive away?”
“No sir. It was his car, but he was banged up pretty bad and his friend got behind the wheel.”
“What kind of car.”
“A Ford Fairlane, light brown.”
Pat Graebel sunk a few more inches in his chair as his entire case smoldered in ashes. The alibi was sticking. Bridgette and the poker boys nailed it. Now the smoking gun had been lost, explained away, never to be salvaged as clear proof of guilt.
Normally, prosecutors do not get the chance to cross-examine defendants who are known criminals and work for known gangsters. They have records and rap sheets that need to be kept away from juries. Nevin Noll, though, was early in his career and had yet to be convicted of anything significant, or felonious, and he seemed supremely confident he could handle anything Graebel could fire at him.
Graebel asked him, “Mr. Noll, who’s your employer?”
“I work for Foxy’s Restaurant in Biloxi.”
“And who owns Foxy’s?”
“Mr. Lance Malco.”
“And you said you were the security manager.”
“I did.”
“And what does that job entail?”
“I manage security.”
“I see. Why does a restaurant need security?”
“Why does any business need security?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Noll.”
“Yes sir. You go right ahead.”
“What type of security issues do you have at Foxy’s Restaurant in Biloxi?”
“Well, I just described a fight. We have those from time to time, have to break ’em up, you know, get rid of the rowdies.”
“You said the two men were drinking, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So, alcohol is served at Foxy’s?”